John Did It
by CrimPysche
Summary: And everyone thought that Sherlock Holmes would be standing around a body. Will Sherlock manage to eventually prove his innocence, or realize that John Watson, indeed, isn't the hero he thought he was? (( Rated T for language, Non-Ship Fic ))
1. Chapter 1

_(( Hello again, everyone! I decided to post this up, even though I'll be leaving in a little while. I really hope you like it – it's probably not an original idea, but I've always been a huge fan of 'What if everyone thought John murdered someone?', so here it is. Any reviews you guys leave would be appreciated!))_

It took a lot of doing to get Sherlock to sleep. Sherlock hadn't slept in two days, and he was sure John had noticed. The signs were subtle enough – a slightly wavering step, a faint stutter to the voice, blood shot eyes. John was unobservant in every way but one. His medical duties. In cases, it was helpful – he could usually identify if the victim had the damn _flu _before dying. On the other hand, he could always tell whenever Sherlock was ill. That wasn't helpful, as neither could admit the influence they had over the other.

So he had forced Sherlock to bed. 'Forced' being the operative word. John could be rather coercive when he wanted to be. There had been a nice cup of tea, with one sugar instead of the usual two. He had taped a bee documentary, which had always interested and relaxed Sherlock. And _then, _for the finale, the cursed blanket over his shoulders. It had been a three-part plan, and by God, it had worked brilliantly. Sherlock was defeated, and had soon been snoring softly on the sofa. Sometime during the night John had managed to heft him to his bed.

He was too groggy to be angry at John when his mobile rang at three in the morning. If anything, he wanted to sleep _longer. _Looking at his mobile, he noticed Lestrade's number. That was odd. Three in the morning? Lestrade was occasionally at work, still, but he _never _called past ten. Never visited past eight. Not unless it was an emergency, and if it was an emergency, why call Sherlock? It didn't make sense.

"Lestrade?" He mumbled into the phone. Granted, it came across as 'Lestraaah?' in his sleepy state, but it went across.

"Sherlock. Hi. Sorry…sorry for the hour. It's just…well, John's been badgering me for a case lately, and a crime scene's just been in. It's a murder. Bit dull, I think, but…you might like it, and John mentioned that you might be desperate." Greg's voice was distracted and exhausted. Sherlock could have deduced more, likely, but he was _far _too tired. That was why he didn't like sleeping – it dulled his senses. However, there was something about this that he just couldn't miss.

"Lestrade, what is different about this one? You wouldn't call me at three AM unless something was wrong."

There was a breath being sighed out, and Sherlock could nearly _see _Lestrade running a hand through his hair. In the back of his mind, Sherlock wondered if something had happened to Mycroft. A sudden, fierce bolt of worry shot through him. It was entirely unexpected and it had the added bonus of immediately waking Sherlock from his groggy state.

"No, it's just…would you mind just getting here? Everybody's fine, you don't need to worry yourself. I just really need your assistance on this one, mate."

'Mate'. Lestrade never called him mate. Usually it was 'Sherlock'. On a bad day, it might be 'consulting dick'. Even on Lestrade's best days, it was never 'mate'.

It sounded far too pitying for Sherlock to be put at ease. So he immediately stood up out of bed and made his way for the door. On his way, he stuck his head into John's room. He expected to see the man there, but he saw nothing. Odd. Perhaps he had had a date tonight and Sherlock had simply forgotten (or, as Sherlock put it, didn't bother to remember). Either way, he left.

Sherlock was halfway to the crime scene before he realized that he hadn't changed. It didn't terribly distress him that he was showing up to a crime scene in his sleeping robe and his grey pyjamas.

…

There was always a certain sense of calm that washed over Sherlock when he arrived at a crime scene. Although he'd never admit it, there were certain moments of…_insecurity, _during his career. He had tried to psychologically rid himself of those moments, but given that everybody seemed to both despise him and require him, they were inevitable. At least he had John. John neither needed him nor despised him, and yet hung about anyway. It made him feel…good.

"I don't suppose you've taken the liberty of securing me a temporary assistant." Sherlock told Lestrade as he approached the body. They were in the middle of a back-alley, ones that nearly screamed filth and corruption. Sherlock knew them well, moreso from his younger years. Oh, and there was another reminder from his younger years – a few needles in the corner.

_Too far away from victim traces of organisms growing on the glass ages old therefore unrelated._

His mind was fast. It got ahead of himself sometimes, leaving Sherlock's physical body huffing to keep up. John often asked himself for his reasoning, and it took Sherlock a few moments to explain himself. His deductions were as fast as lightening – he didn't have to bother _taking time _to analyse. It just happened in his mind, among the synapses and neurons.

"Oh, for God's – last week, Sherlock, you told me you didn't want any other assistant if John wasn't here. Besides, nobody agreed to work with you." Lestrade grumped at him. Sherlock cast one glance at the man. This was at least his tenth hour working, he hadn't eaten in a while, he was tired, exhausted, cranky. But there was something different, something _sharper, _worming its way into Lestrade's expression.

Was it…fear?

It didn't matter. Lestrade's life was not the concern.

There was one gunshot, delivered straight through the skull. Anatomy figures flashed through Sherlock's brain – yes, it had went gone up through the brain stem. That would mean almost immediate death – or, if not, then heavy paralysis for the rest of one's life. Whether the shot was lucky or showed pre-meditation, Sherlock didn't yet know.

The man was on his face. He had hit it with some force, indicating that he had been standing when he had been shot. It also told Sherlock there was no attempt to save his life. Any reasonable individual would have immediately moved the man to his back. So the man had been shot, had fallen, and the murderer had left. Not entirely unusual.

There were two sets of footprints leading into the alley. One was quite obvious – two heels, dragging their way back into the alley. They were frenzied and panicked. The other prints were a bit larger, but they were certainly calmer. The murderer had dragged the victim back into the alley. The victim was a small man, frail – the murderer was not.

"Did your team take anything away from the victim?" Sherlock asked, getting on his knees beside the victim. Not a drug user, social drinker, never smoked – likely because he had asthma, as well as an allergy to cats. Despite his allergy, he had two. Lived with a girlfriend…_fiancé…_no, he had the ring but didn't propose yet. Financially well-off – worked as a doctor, though he had a good bit of inheritance from his parents.

None of this was helping.

"Er, yeah. His wallet. He had about seventy-five pounds with him, as well as a picture of someone…a girlfriend, we think? A couple of IDs, some loose change, a cinema ticket." Lestrade explained, waving over a forensic technician. "Is there a reason you're still in your-"

Speaking of his pyjamas, Sherlock was rather getting cold. He would have preferred to continue this conversation in the warmth of the Yard (or at home). Either way, the news about the wallet put fire through his veins, and he forgot about his cold for a few seconds. He was sure Lestrade could see the warmth in his eyes, now.

"Ah. We've gotten lucky, then. I so hate _luck, _Inspector, it reduces the difficulty of the dilemma. Either way, we know that this was not a robbery, which eliminates the most likely option. As it happens, we can also strike out revenge – if this was for revenge, the murderer would have wanted for the victim to _see _him. This leaves a good number of other options, which I'll start to whittle down. The first thing to do, evidently, is to interview the people he knew. This wasn't a crime of passion, Inspector – you can't just grab a man off the street and drag him into the alley. No, you must know the traffic around the streets, you must know the victim's route, you must know the physical strength of the victim. It was _deliberate. _Bring in the fiancé for questioning. Which hospital did he work at?"

Lestrade took Sherlock's speech patiently, and didn't question how Sherlock knew the man worked at a hospital. He flipped through some files that the tech had suddenly brought up, and handed a paper over to Sherlock. "St. Barts. He was a physician there."

"St. Barts." Sherlock repeated, flipping through the papers there. A rather good physician – had won a few awards. "John may have known him. Damn. He'll like to give his opinion on him, as if that would help in the slightest. Very well. The picture of his fiancé."

Lestrade handed the picture over to him. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by it – Sarah Sawyer. Good. It was not the fiancé, then. The footprints were far too wide for her feet, and there was no way she would have had the physical strength to drag her fiancé back into the alley.

"Very well. I'd like a list of those he worked with, and those he was closest to. Put the ones who have medical experience at the top." Something occurred to Sherlock, then, and he turned about on his feet to face Lestrade again. "And the ones who have some form of military experience, as well. I need those who have professional knowledge of the human brain and the military training to go through with it. The victim and the murderer were _close, _Inspector, physically close. There would have been blood, brain matter, skull fragments. It would have been frightening."

Lestrade looked physically ill with himself. He shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The man's head was bowed low. "Right. We'll get on it. Thanks for your help here, Sherlock."

Sherlock whipped around again to stare into Lestrade's eyes, his eyebrows furrowing. "There is something else that is unnerving you. What is it?"

Sherlock didn't often express concern for Lestrade. They were two different people. And now t hat John had entered into his life, Sherlock had felt a growing…worry. He had a past with Lestrade, a past that involved drugs and overdoses and showing up at Lestrade's door at three in the morning, sobbing his heart out, and begging for a place to stay for protection. If Lestrade told John, John would be disappointed. Or, even worse, concerned – he would have treated Sherlock differently for it. So he had made it a point to not be overly concerned in Lestrade's life.

If he had been asked by anyone, he would have said that he just thought that Lestrade was hiding something from him, and Sherlock needed all the information he could. However, there was that thing on Lestrade's face. A sort of personal fear.

"We found someone at the crime scene. Er. We think it may have been the murderer, and we have him in custody. He's…he's a doctor, yeah, and he used to be in the military. He's pretty damn strong, too. Wrestled a couple of the officers who tried to put cuffs on him. Didn't hurt anyone, not much, but…yeah."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why, then, would you call me to the crime scene?"

"I think you better see who it is, first." Lestrade answered for him, and then the man did something he'd never done before. There had been shock blankets delivered, of course, but those had been mainly in jest. It was rare that he showed an actual, physical sign that Lestrade cared about Sherlock.

However, that night, Lestrade gently slid off his NSY jacket. He placed it over Sherlock's shoulders and tugged it so that it wouldn't fall. Although Sherlock had initially just raised an eyebrow on him, he kept the jacket on.

He had ridden in Lestrade's car, feeling only a little childish as he held the jacket on his shoulders. This must've been bad. Perhaps Mycroft had finally snapped and murdered someone. Oh, that would have been delightful. He didn't feel like that was what it was, however. No, Lestrade was too eerily quiet for that. When Lestrade finally opened his mouth, Sherlock twitched in surprise.

"Hey. When you see who it is, don't…freak out. Like you usually do, you know? And don't feel guilty, for the love of God. None of this was your fault. We don't know what was going through his mind at the time. There were probably things none of us could have known about. So don't feel guilty about it, and…if you ever need someone to talk to, about anything, then you know where I work." Lestrade didn't make eye contact the entire time. He'd been more keen on heart-to-heart talks when he was younger, but that seemed to have diminished with his age.

"I assure you that, even if it is my own mother sitting there, Lestrade, I will be perfectly fine." Sherlock snapped – it was automatic. "Just _drive." _

They drove in silence.

When they arrived at the Yard, Sherlock was out first and making his way towards the interrogation room.

It felt as if time stopped at that moment. Sherlock felt as if he could go out of himself, and see the visual as clearly as a painting. There was Sherlock, opening the door in the interrogation room. His mouth was slightly dropped, not enough to be comical. Eyebrows were raised. The coat was just starting to slip off his shoulders. Behind him, there would have been Lestrade, one arm raised as an attempt to stop Sherlock going into the room alone.

And there, at the table, was one John Watson, his wrists bound together in cuffs, and staring down at the table.


	2. Chapter 2

_(( woof! This turned out a lot longer than I imagined! I hope you all like it, considering it may be my last story for a couple of weeks! I hope it turned out interesting – it was rather loads of fun to write! Leave a review if you'd like!))_

Sherlock was very rarely surprised, as a rule. Nearly every possibility was in the back of his mind, somewhere. Of course, some were more likely than others to occur. John didn't fully understand how his mind worked, really, so whenever John called him _wrong, _Sherlock just had to grit his teeth and bear it. No, John, he was not _wrong, _he just had not shared his idea. Should he share every idea he had with the doctor, John would grow bored of him so quickly.

Of course, he was surprised _now. _

Never, in a thousand years, would he have expected John Watson to be sitting there. His eyes flicked over him. Tired, of course – hadn't slept in a long while, partially Sherlock's fault. He hadn't been home yet. Still wearing his medical coat, as well. Given that it was nearly four in the morning, now, Sherlock wondered what he had been up to.

There was blood. That blood made Sherlock internally cringe. It was staining the bottom of his medical coat, making an unfortunate garnish at the end of the long white fabric. With that, there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek – traces of brick dust on it, which Sherlock didn't doubt came from the brick dust at the crime scene.

His hands had been freshly scrubbed. But, Sherlock's mind protested, if he had been standing that close, he would have been positively _covered _in brain matter. Why wouldn't he have-

Oh. He had showered. There was a bit of water at the hollow of his neck, and the smudge of dirt was several shades darker than it should have been, indicating that he had been wet. He had showered, and obviously not at the Yard shower – they would never have allowed a suspect to do. That smacked of guilt, and Sherlock felt his hand clench in his jacket.

"Hope I didn't wake you." John offered him a light joke, raising his head so that he could stare Sherlock in the face. Upon witnessing Sherlock's angered expression, John jingled his handcuffs together. "Sherlock. You're going to have to keep calm, yeah? I told Lestrade, I didn't want you on this case. Too personal, you know? Though it's not like Lestrade's much listening to what I say, now."

The words entered Sherlock's mind with a brief delay. No, Sherlock was too far gone. Down within the delves of his Mind Palace – of John's part, specifically.

When he had met John, he, of course, knew he had to make a bit of space for him. A room seemed adequate – surely John wouldn't prove interesting enough to warrant much else. However, like a disease, once John's room was full, he started to branch out into other rooms. Even now, Sherlock would occasionally open a book or drawer, and John would be there. So Sherlock had expanded John's space.

Originally, he constructed a gardener's shed from John. It was far apart from his work and Sherlock could lounge there whenever he wanted. Deleting things from John's area seemed cruel to him, so Sherlock did not. However, that small shed had sprang up and downwards. Now, it somewhat resembled a small battle tower on the edges of his Mind Palace.

Sherlock took his memory techniques very seriously.

Now, he was scrounging through John's personality. Was there anything he had missed? He knew John had killed before, of course, but would he do so like this – obviously in cold blood, dragging a man down an alley? All that talk about having a heart and about having friends – was it all a fluke, intending to bring Sherlock down? Indeed, what if John intended to kill him, as well? Had he made rooms with an assassin?

Sherlock was, at his heart, fairly paranoid. He had to be. Wandering down the street, he could see kills-for-hire, drug dealers, desperate men, frightened men, stupid men. Of course he was well-versed in self-defense, but there was always the small point of fear. After all, Sherlock's place was in the mind, not in the fists. Or the gun, for that matter.

"Sherlock." John's voice was lightly pleading now, as he looked up at him. There were a few moments of awkward silence. "You look like you're going to have a stroke in front of me. In chains or not, I'm still your assistant. You mind letting me know what you're thinking?"

Sherlock's head shot up towards John, and he maintained eye contact. When Sherlock made a point to keep eye contact, it was…frightening. Abnormal. As if John was the only thing in the room, yes, but also as if John was a specimen under a microscope. He stared at him furiously, and then he blinked once.

"I have nine theories. Four place you as the murderer, one place you as holding partial credit, and four place you as being framed. I don't have sufficient evidence to prove any single one, especially not to the cavemen at NSY, but all of them are tentative, regardless."

"I-"

Sherlock held up one hand. "Don't. Any confessions or protests on your part will only condemn you, John. They will not hold any sway with me. The most you can do for yourself, right now, is to sit and listen. For now, John, you are to pay the part of the skull – you remember the scene in Hamlet, yes? With Hamlet and the skull of Yorick? The skull gave Hamlet the intense realization that all men die. Should you remain quiet, perhaps you will give me a similar realization."

"I don't think-"

"The dead do not speak, John."

John fell quiet. His fingers felt deftly across the chains, and Sherlock understood that John was trying to remind himself where he was. Suspected of murder, he had no hope but to place all of his trust in Sherlock Holmes. Heaven help the poor man.

"One." Sherlock's voice was quiet, but he stood up from the table. Like a shark circling its prey, he started to walk around John. He was looking for any signs of weakness, any twitch, anything that gave John away. "You have a personal vendetta against the man and you shot him in cold blood. You did work with him, I imagine. It would be rather unlikely that you could harbor such a massive hatred against him, but it could happen. After all, hatred does pick at the lines of morality, does it not?"

Had he much trust in the theory? Not really. John dealt with _Sherlock Holmes. _The man had limitless patience (or, really, as much patience as anyone could be expected to have), and he was one of the few people in London who thought that most violence could be solved with words. Not that he wasn't keen to go to arms when the situation called for it.

John's eyebrows raised, and his hands clenched to fist. Insult was clearly written all over his face – by that, Sherlock meant that nobody could ever see it but Sherlock. He gave a shake of his head, but continued to let Sherlock talk.

His voice grew angrier as he continued to circle around John. "Two." It was spoken through gritted teeth. "You were having a PTSD flashback and found a man. The murder has shown some signs of being rather military – dragging a man into a back alley, likely clamping a hand around his mouth, and shooting him where you know he would die. It would all be held with you believing that you were back in the war, yet. That's also fairly understandable – your nightmares have become more frequent and your limp has been visible."

At that, Sherlock didn't have much faith. It was true that John's PTSD had been growing worse, and sometimes, he did have flashbacks. They were always very light. One night, Sherlock had went to John's aid during the throes of a particularly violent nightmare. John had bolted up straight in his bed and called Sherlock 'Colonel Moran', and then ordered him to get down. That was the worst of it, and there was a big leap between that and the murder of an innocent soul.

John's face blanched. Whether out of embarrassment or anger, Sherlock wasn't positive, but he thought the former. John didn't like to admit weakness. It was what endeared John to Sherlock. Obviously full of weakness – every human on the Earth was, aside from Sherlock. And yet, when Sherlock pointed them out, he didn't deny it. He would perhaps deny its severity, but never the fact that he had a weakness. Sherlock enjoyed it.

Sherlock's hands settled on John's shoulders from behind, and he gave them a tight squeeze. It was an intimidation technique, really, and part of him felt a bit bad that he had to do such techniques to John. "Three. A romantic anger. You found the man with one of your girlfriends, and you decided to gather revenge against him. You stalked him, brutally, and then you decided to get him out of the picture finally. There are some points to corroborate this – he worked with you, you would have known where to find him, and the close range of the kill dictates some sort of personal attachment. Then again, wouldn't you have wanted to see his face if it was personal?"

Sherlock was nearly ready to discount that theory. John's romantic life may have been important to the man, yes, but he would never have killed over it. Then again, if Sherlock had a romantic betrayal, he felt as if John would do anything in order to make Sherlock feel better. He didn't think too much into that- that led into a series of sentimental paths, and Sherlock couldn't even admit that John was his friend on a daily basis.

John seemed to feel the same towards his theory. He let out a barely-disguised snort, and he rolled his shoulders back in order to get Sherlock's hands off of them. His entire expression seemed to read disgust and…well, frankly, a bit of disappointment. How dare Sherlock even think that of him.

"And four. The most interesting one to myself, and perhaps the most likely. You were hired to do this, John. Perhaps out of money, perhaps out of a need for excitement. Many villains have fallen, John, because they need excitement. I've no doubt that it is how I will die, someday. Regardless. You were hired to do this, you planned it out, you enacted it." A small smirk pulled Sherlock's lips to the side. "Perhaps you were doing this in order to prove yourself to me in terms of intelligence. You've felt rather idiotic next to me, haven't you, John, you need to prove yourself, and the idea engulfed you, destroyed your sanity, destroyed your morality, destroyed your-"

"Sherlock." John's voice was calm, and it made Sherlock realize what he was doing. He was leaning over the table across from John, breathing heavily, his nostrils flared, his face red. For what it was worth, he looked like a madman. John's handcuffed hands went over to rest on Sherlock's, and he looked up at him. "You're not going to do anybody any good if you're going to act like this. The only thing you'll do for yourself is get pulled off the case. You know fully well what sort of person I am, Sherlock. At least, I hope you do. You can think whatever you'd like of me, but _calm down." _

"Why aren't you _defending yourself!?" _Sherlock's voice snapped on the last word, and he leaped away from John as if he were made of poison. "You are supposed to be shouting your innocence from the rooftops, John! I am inclined to believe that you are innocent – you are my friend, among other titles! However, I cannot use your rank as my friend to put you in complete innocence!"

John looked at the table quietly, before shaking his head. "Just a skull. What's five? The one where I'm partially guilty?"

"Ah, yes. Partial guilt. You weren't the one who killed him, but you were in the company of a man who was. Someone in your work, someone in your life, John, wanted to see this man dead. You were close enough to him to agree to help, and then, you watched as this man was brutally murdered." Sherlock paused, taking his hands back and pushing John's to the edge of the table. "This would explain the lack of powder marks on your hands, but the appearance of blood. Of course, you would still be held guilty if this is, indeed, the case."

John's face was expressionless. He was a rather good skull, as it turned out – however, what Sherlock really needed was an assistant. Oh, he would have rathered _anybody _sitting across from him right then, from his own mother to his older brother, anyone other than John. The only person that he absolutely needed by his side. He let his face slip for one second to show his desperation, and John gave a small nod.

"Six, then. Where you are innocent. You encountered the scene several days prior, and for one reason or another, you received the smudge of dirt on your cheek. I may not have noticed – I've been rather busy the past few days. The blood on your coat was received while you were working, and you haven't cleaned it off. You are completely innocent and I imagine this is all very traumatizing for you." Sherlock spoke, giving a small shake of his head. He was calming down, now. The theory was already discarded in his mind – stupid. Improbable.

"Seven. You were knocked out and brought to the scene of the crime. That was where you got your markings. When you woke, you were so confused as to what had happened that you panicked. You showered, Lestrade took this as a sign of guilt, and immediately apprehended you. Until I hear your story, I'm quite inclined to believe this one. You're so damn trusting."

"Eight. You witnessed it as an innocent bystander. You were walking by on the street, heard the shot, and investigated. In doing so, you got a bit of blood on your coat and a bit of dirt on your cheek. For one reason or another, you didn't call the police, but you went home to wash up. Likely you left a bit of forensic evidence at the crime scene and Lestrade convicted you. Your crime scene etiquette has been growing worse, I'm afraid. My fault."

"Nine, and the last. You knew what was going to happen to him, and your inner sense of morality told you that you should stop it. However, you didn't particularly like the victim, and you didn't care much if he lived or died. Ridden by guilt that you didn't tell the police, you have now put yourself in the martyr position – you deserve this, because if it weren't for you, a man would have been alive today."

John had sat by and listened – occasionally a smile would grow to his face. His hands had been deposited in his lap, and he shook his head once Sherlock had finished. A chuckle escaped. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. "Nothing. It's just…God, Sherlock, you're the most brilliant man in London. In the entire United Kingdom, really."

A warm flush invaded Sherlock's cheek and he raised a finger to say something, but nothing came out. Indeed, he just stared at John in dumb amazement until Lestrade opened the door and told him thath is time was up.


	3. Chapter 3

_(( Can I just say that I really love mentallyfragile!Sherlock? I do. I hope you guys like this chapter. I'll be heading off tomorrow, and I'll be gone for two weeks. No guarantee on if I'll be able to post anything or not. Either way, leave a review if you want!))_

"I'm not done, Lestrade." Sherlock looked up at the grey-haired Inspector. Greg had inclined a finger towards him – clearly an indication for him to get out of the interrogation room. His expression was somber and resolute. As Sherlock remained stubborn, Lestrade's expression didn't change. He only let out a small sigh.

"Look, Sherlock." Oh, there it bloody was. The 'concerned father' voice. It made Sherlock's nostrils flare. He kept his voice quiet, as if John wasn't listening to everything that he was saying. "Nobody's happy with how this turned out, but you can't pitch a fuss about it. Now, if you don't come out, I'm going to have to arrest you for obstruction of justice. I'm sorry, but-"

Everyone in the room knew what Sherlock was going to do next. Sherlock had smoothed his pyjama trousers, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet on the table. His eyes were narrowed at Greg. For all the world, he looked like a slightly rebellious teenager. He opened his eyes, ready to give the word for Greg to arrest him. After all, he wasn't _done here. _

Sherlock didn't expect John.

John had reached over the table with the kindest look in his eyes. His hand settled on Sherlock's shoulder and he looked at him intently for a few seconds, as if he was judging what he was going to say. Sherlock stared wordlessly at his friend, and for a second, Lestrade could have been a dozen miles away.

It wasn't a romantic gesture in the slightest. No, if Sherlock could have put words to it, he would have termed it a _sentimental _gesture. The look they shared was one between two people who completely understood one another, and who, despite knowing the other's faults, failures, and fallacies, still loved one another. Or, at least, that was what it was in Sherlock's mind. For all Sherlock knew, John was wondering why on Earth Sherlock was staring at him with such intensity.

He supposed this strange closeness had all came about after the Fall. The Fall, of course, had been the one single gesture that Sherlock _loved _people. Not just _cared, _no, but properly _loved _people. And loved John most of all. John knew it, deep down, but Sherlock would never admit it. Sherlock had seen John after the Fall, and was surprised by how much John had grieved over him. Sherlock had never been _missed _before. Perhaps people missed his intellect, or missed his sarcasm, but never _him. _So Sherlock had resolved never to hurt John again, just as John had resolved never to drive Sherlock to that point again.

Sometimes, it still felt as if it were he and John against the world. In some ways, it was.

"Sherlock." John told him, his voice the same pitch as Lestrade's was. "It's not worth it. You getting locked up. Just go off."

Sherlock didn't argue. John, of course, brought a startling clarity to Sherlock's life. Sometimes, Sherlock felt as if he weren't living in reality, but of a drama of his own creation. That there were no consequences, because soon, the credits would roll. John reminded him that _consequences happened._

"Uh, Sherlock?" It was Greg's voice, breaking the contact John and Sherlock had shared. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to go. John needs to be interrogated by a proper-"

Sherlock stood up with such a force that the chair was knocked over. Such a display of drama even made John snort. Pushing past Lestrade's shoulder, Sherlock headed out from the Yard. Much to his dismay, it had started to rain. That ruined any chance Sherlock had of heading back to the crime scene. Soon, Sherlock's pyjamas were soaked through. He went home.

At home, Sherlock had resurrected the case board. A giant pin-up board was placed on the top of the fireplace. Pictures were printed out and placed on the board. He had taken a photo of John and pinned it up there, as well as computer records of his military service, doctoral service, and various other achievements John had made. On the other side were pictures of the victim, pictures of his fiancé, and pictures of his own achievements. Sherlock had put it up and stared.

The retreat into his Mind Palace had occurred when Sherlock felt backed into a wall. Nine theories. Revenge, PTSD, Romantic Betrayal, Hired Job, Partial Credit, Previous Interaction with the Crime Scene, Drugged and Brought to the Crime Scene, Innocent Bystander, Knew Beforehand. They all swirled about in his head and Sherlock felt like he was drowning in his own mind. It was too much to handle at once. And he couldn't even go back to the damn crime scene to check.

Very well. Had to eliminate them one by one, then. Sherlock mentally discarded _Previous Interaction with Crime Scene. _The body was fresh, the marks were even fresher, and there was no way a murder had occurred there days before. It was too much of a coincidence. That left eight.

_Partial Credit _was eliminated next. There were only two pairs of footprints, and the alley was narrow. If John had committed this with another person, then that person would have been there. Unless the other murderer had walked in John's footsteps, literally, then John would have been there. Alone. That left seven.

_Romantic Betrayal _was the next. He had to search heavily in his Mind Palace for that one, but he couldn't remember John having a girlfriend recently. Certainly not one that would have made him lash out in such a brutal manner. Besides, and he received a decent amount of pride from saying it, John cared far more about _Sherlock _than any of his twittery little girlfriends, and wouldn't kill because of them. Six.

_Revenge _was blasted from a similar vein. John was not one to get jealous, or competitive. He seemed thoroughly contented with his lot in life – or rather, he didn't want to do anything about it. For that, Sherlock was pleased. Only one ambitious sociopath per household. Besides, John didn't care enough about his job to kill for it. That didn't mean he wasn't passionate about the subject – oh, no, John was a doctor to his very soul. But he had left his job enough times for Sherlock's silly whims. Five.  
John's _PTSD _had never brought out violent tendencies in him. He had yelled, yes, sometimes he _screamed _fit to wake the dead. And, of course, there'd been that one night where he had sat up in his bed and yelled out _Colonel Moran, get down! _at Sherlock. Beyond that, though, Sherlock didn't see it as dangerous. Sometimes he twitched at loud clatters, but he had always had full control of his conscious. Besides, his symptoms manifested themselves while he was _un_conscious. So unless John had woken up in his sleep and had maneuvered his way across London, all the while in a flashback, Sherlock struck that off. Four.

Was John an _innocent bystander? _Sherlock sincerely doubted it. One, John would never have been there at that time. The murder had been placed at late in the evening, and John would have been home from work. Was supposed to be home, anyway. Either way, he had no good reason to be where the murder was, unless he was doing something illegitimate. And, Sherlock reasoned further, if he _had _been doing something illegal, would he have stopped to investigate a murder? Doubtful. Three.

From there, Sherlock was done. He stepped away from the board and looked over all his theories. Nine index cards had been tacked up on the board, and six had been ripped away. They littered at his feet, as if mocking him. Three left and Sherlock couldn't eliminate any further. He _needed _to talk to someone. His skull wouldn't do it, Mrs. Hudson was asleep, Lestrade wouldn't pay attention, hell no to his brother. Sherlock could feel his hands start to shake, and with one angry yell, he slapped his hand across the board. It came loose from its bearings and fell against the floor. The entire flat wobbled for a second, as if afraid of the detective.

Not good.

_Hired Job, Knew Beforehand, Drugged and Brought to Crime Scene._

Hired Job Knew Beforehand Drugged and Brought to Crime Scene

HiredJobKnewBeforehandDruggedandBroughttoCrimeScen e

HiReDjObKnEwBeFoReHaNdDrUgGeDaNdBrOuGhTtOcRiMeScEn E

HIREDJOBKNEWBEFOREHANDDRUGGEDANDBROUGHTTOCRIMESCEN E

Sherlock's mind was eating away at himself. He flung himself from his Mind Palace, but had only delivered himself in the shadow of John's tower. It hung over him, and for a second, Sherlock felt the worst emotion that a detective, a sociopath, a _human _could ever feel.

Doubt.

Perhaps Sherlock had been wrong to place his trust in John for all these years. Perhaps John hadn't been entirely on his side. Perhaps John had been laughing at him, all these years. Perhaps John really _was _Moriarty. Perhaps every murder that Sherlock had investigated had been orchestrated by John, who had just sat back on his heels and laughed when he thought Sherlock couldn't see. Perhaps-

Now paranoia was being added to the fuel, and Sherlock knew that he was shaking.

He _needed _a hit.

It wasn't an entirely new thought. Every time Sherlock felt his mind start to do this, he felt like he needed the drug. Everything became clear with that in hand. Because, _oh, _this doubt was going to kill him. Sherlock Holmes's worst fear was being exposed as a sentimental fool, and now, he became dangerously close to having that realized.

It was stupid, he told himself. He had one theory where John was guilty. He had two where he was completely innocent. And yet, that _one _theory frightened Sherlock more than any gun, knife, or needle ever did. Then again, that theory also shattered everything that Sherlock knew.

Oh, no. No no no no no. He needed a hit. He couldn't progress without a hit.

Or an assistant.

That thought hit him harshly, and Sherlock's shoulders fell. Perhaps John was a murderer. Perhaps John was everything that Sherlock was against. However, John would also be an assistant, and something that Sherlock very much needed. Besides, the back of Sherlock's mind told him, if John _was _a murderer, then he would fight to keep Sherlock thinking he was innocent as long as possible. That entailed being a good little assistant.

There was just the tiny little dilemma of getting John out of the obvious overnight cell they were holding him in.

When he said 'tiny little dilemma', it wasn't sarcasm. Sherlock wasn't unduly worried by that fact. In fact, as he looked at the clock (bordering on five AM, now), he felt just a tad bit energized. Something for his mind to chew on, while the real problem simmered on the stove.

Clothes did make the man. Sherlock had changed into something a bit more befitting a detective, and had gathered a few articles together to help him. John wouldn't approve of this, not by a long shot. Then again, if it came between scouting out his old drug dealer or finding John, Sherlock was fairly confident as to what choice John would make.

With everything gathered, Sherlock hired a cab. He didn't worry about his movements being tracked in the slightest. Soon, he was nearly waltzing up to the Yard. Lestrade would have been home at this point – even he usually got home before the sun rose. A few of the graveyard shifters were still there, unfortunately enough, but too weary and too exhausted to notice Sherlock Holmes slinking through the Yard.

"John?" Sherlock whispered as he approached the holding cells, running his gloved fingers along the bars. A few of the overnight drunken blokes made soft groans. John's head shot up immediately, and his voice was chiding.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?" John got up and moved his way to the front. Getting to his knees, he stared at Sherlock with a groggy, angry expression. "You're _not _doing this. No. Sherlock, I swear to _God-" _

"It's a danger night. " Sherlock whispered quickly and without a trace of humor. His fingers found the lockpicks and he began to make swift work of the lock. "It was either find my assistant again or find my drug dealer, and you'll permit me if I'm actually rather keen on keeping my sobriety."

John was silent. For a few seconds, the only thing that remained was the occasional click from Sherlock's tools. When he spoke again, it was a small attempt at humor, but his voice remained too deadpan for it to come off as such. "You know how much I bleeding _hate _you sometimes, yeah?"

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that. Part of him wanted to joke with John, but another large part of him couldn't. The debilitating doubt was beginning to overwhelm him again – was he breaking out his friend, or a murderer? Or both? If a murderer, how long would John carry on the charade of being his friend? If a friend, how long before John realized Sherlock's doubt and would feel hurt?

The cell door swung open with a click. John stepped out. "We should be getting out of here, then. Are you…okay?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. His hands snapped out to grab John's shoulders, and to move down his arms. John managed out a muffled '_What are you doing?!' _before Sherlock had turned away and marched out.

When they were sitting in the flat again, John was awkwardly leaning against their sofa. Sherlock was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. John raised a finger. "Uh, can you remind again why I'm now running away from the law?"

"_Assistant." _Sherlock hissed, whipping around and facing him. One finger was pointed towards John. An accusatory finger. "_Your story. Now."_


	4. Chapter 4

John took a deep breath and hesitated, as if he were unsure of what he was going to say. Sherlock took that as a good sign. He wondered if John understood his mental fragility now – his hands had stopped shaking, but he had placed them in his pocket anyway. It was most unlike him. Usually Sherlock _communicated _with his hands, used them as memory tools. Then again, John was frankly unobservant.

Then again, if John _was _a murderer, how observant was Sherlock?

As John spoke, Sherlock remained standing. Part of him wanted to come to pieces. Whenever he doubted himself, there was always the small part of him that wanted to do that. He wanted to collapse next to John, to hug him, to sob into his shoulder and beg for him not to be a murderer. John was and always had been Sherlock's only friend, and Sherlock didn't want to (couldn't?) lose him.

But he was Sherlock Holmes, so he just looked down on John with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.

"If you want the truth, it's…all a bit of a blur." John admitted, leaning back on the sofa. It was clear that he was slightly anxious – when someone was an escaped criminal, Sherlock mused, they had a right to be. "I woke up that morning, went to work, met someone for lunch. I came back and put you to bed…it was around ten, I think. And _then…_I don't know, mate. I just got so damn dizzy, and I thought that some fresh air might do me right, so I went outside. I remember…er, falling down." His brow furrowed in confusion. " Next thing I know? I'm in some damned back alley, holding a gun, and the poor bloke's in front of me. God, Sherlock, I _knew _him. Didn't think poorly of him, either, but…Jesus."

Sherlock held up one hand for John to stop. Considering if John was telling the truth, that almost proved his drugged and brought to crime scene theory. It would be so easy for John to _lie, _though. For a second, Sherlock was so torn between the three theories that he just looked down at John in completely unhidden fury. John tilted his head to the side and placed both hands up. The universal gesture of surrender. "Sherlock. You're going to hurt yourself. Keep panicking, and I'll have you off the case. I swear it."

"John, please, I _need _to!" Sherlock finally hissed at him, turning away from John. He stalked into the kitchen, feeling only mildly foolish. Sentiment. How easy it would be if he hadn't gotten close to him. Yet another example for the stupidity of entire damn practice. _Love. _Bah.

It didn't take long for John to shuffle into the kitchen behind him. Soon, he began making tea. They remained in strict silence for a while before he murmured to Sherlock, "They'll be checking the cells soon. They'll notice I'm gone."

"Yes, yes, and they'll come here. We'll stow you in Mrs. Hudson's for the time being. They shan't look there. Sweet old lady, wouldn't hide any dangerous criminals." Sherlock muttered, sitting at the table. His head was in his arms, and he let out a visible noise of distress.

Quite unexpectedly, and quite oddly, John's hand was in his hair. His other hand was occupied with a mug of tea, but John's hand was _tousling _his hair. In the most affectionate and kind of manners, even. "Don't drive yourself mad over this. It's okay, yeah? Whatever happens in the end, you'll be fine. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. If you want me to bloody stay by your side, I will. Whatever you need, Sherlock." A pause. "For what it's worth, I don't think that I killed anyone. I hope I didn't. I'd be a right awful friend if I did, wouldn't I? Leaving you like that. Though, I imagine that I wouldn't be too bad of an assistant, even in jail."

"You'd be an awful assistant indeed. Barely competent when you're always around." Sherlock mumbled in good humor. And then they were silent. It was a sentimental, bonding moment, and Sherlock didn't know what to do. Did John have this with all of his friends? These strange moments of friendship, love, fondness? He said he had lunch with a friend, perhaps John was _this _sentimental with them? Or-?

It hit him.

"John. The man you had lunch with today. Name." Sherlock immediately sat back and stared up at John. John's hand reeled back, and he looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Old Army mate. He was my patient. Poor bugger got himself all banged up, and we were having a little chinwag. I invited him out. Why do you ask?"

"The last time you've seen him? And _name, _John."

"Last time I saw him? I was bleeding out on the battlefield, mate. He was the soldier I was patching up when I got shot. Haven't seen him since. Good to know he's doing well, though. His name? Sebastian Moran. He told me he was a Colonel."

"Was?"

"Oh, he left some time ago. Didn't mention why." A light smile grew to John's face. "Knowing him? He probably got in some trouble or other."

Sometimes he felt like John didn't understand his thought process. As close as they were and as close as they _needed _one another, Sherlock occasionally felt like a stranger in front of him. How idiotic could John be? Did nothing happen in his mind? If _Sherlock _had had the smoking gun, the conclusion would have been obvious. Someone had drugged him. Who would? Well, there was nothing more suspicious than an old 'friend' from the Army days. Sebastian Moran didn't ring any bells to him.

"Right." Sherlock looked at his watch and let out a slight huff. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock decided, he had to assume that John was telling the truth. Would it, perhaps, make him look like a fool later? Of course. But the alternative was _not _trusting John, and that thought seemed so foreign and so alien to him that Sherlock couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Was it worrying how much sway John had over him? The man could get him to bed whenever he wanted, the man could get him to _apologise _to people, the man could get him to _feel _things that he had long since abandoned. It was an unconditional love, and even if John turned out to be Jack the Ripper, Sherlock would still stand right by his side. He could only hope that John felt the same way towards him. He thought he might.

"Yeah. So, Sherlock, is there a plan?" John finally asked him, leaning forward and rubbing his palms together. His eyes were fixed on the floor.

"You'll want to hide soon." Sherlock didn't look at John, either – instead, he was looking at a spot just above the mantle. "Lestrade won't have any mercies. Mrs. Hudson's will do. Be honest with her. God knows we've caused her too much grief."

With that, John was up and moving. Sherlock flinched slightly as John walked by him, but other than that, gave no movement to acknowledge John's exodus. As soon as John was gone, Sherlock stood up and vanished down the stairs. He opened the front door just as Lestrade rang.

"Where do you have him?" Greg looked exhausted. It was almost pitiful. "Don't give me that look, Sherlock, I know you have him. His cell was bloody _picked. _And I could very well arrest you for impediment of justice if you don't let me know. For God's sake, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised both hands in surrender. His face was a careful mask, one constructed of surprise, fascination, and sorrow. "I've not the faintest idea as to what you're talking about, Lestrade. While my flatmate's arrest has proven…interesting, at the least, I have no inclination to impede justice." He gestured towards the inside of the flat with a sweep of his hands. "I invite you to search."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but stepped in.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was perched upon his sofa, as regal as royalty. He did take a sort of twisted pride in fooling Lestrade in this fashion, and he personified that by giving Lestrade a pleased smirk every time the man passed him. Finally Lestrade just through up his hands in frustration and sat next to him. One thick finger was jabbed at his chest.

"Sherlock. This isn't a _game. _You know that, yeah? John could've murdered someone. Hell, he probably _did _murder someone. I know him just as well as you do-" Sherlock scoffed, but Lestrade kept going. "And I was just as surprised as you were. But sometimes, life gets shit. If you know where he is, you're going to tell me. I know it's hard." A pause, and Lestrade shook his head. All of his air released in a huff. "God help me, the last thing I want to do is take away your friend. But you know what's got to be done. Don't you?"

Sherlock stood up and brushed off his coat. Anger had bloomed like a flower in his chest. Anger, it seemed, had become a default emotion for Sherlock these days.

How could people be so _stupid? _One sleight of hand, and then they were fooled. Even John. Even Lestrade. Was he the only one with any sense left in the world?

It was times like these where he thought of Moriarty. He would never use the phrase 'miss him', but there was a certain…twisted…unhealthy…_want _of his presence, again. His intelligence. Moriarty had been the height of his career and the most fantastic mind he had ever probed. In the end, of course, he had proved himself to be like everyone else. But the _game! _Oh, the _game! _It had been the most stimulation Sherlock had ever had, and just a few died because of it.

He shook his head. "Noted. Now. Unless you'd like to run an impromptu drugs bust, Lestrade, I must ask you to vacate my flat."

Lestrade left without further difficulty.

John didn't move up from Mrs. Hudson's flat, for which, Sherlock was grateful. His brain whirred with the most fantastic suggestions and thoughts, and when he was finished, it was as clear as a single strand of yarn.

Sebastian Moran had poisoned him.

In John's state, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to pin the crime scene on him.

But for what purpose?

Surely not to cover the murder up. The victim was unremarkable in all aspects, and a man like Moran wouldn't have wanted him dead. Sherlock toyed with the possibility that it was against _John, _but John, in the most delicate way possible, didn't have enemies. He had enemies because of Sherlock, yes, but those enemies would prefer to see Sherlock dead.

So, for perhaps the fifteenth time, John had been put in danger because of Sherlock.

Glorious.

However, if that was the case, then Moran would surely enjoy a face-to-face talk. It would be interesting, perhaps, to see what slight Sherlock had done against him. He didn't bother attempting to research the man – by John's description, Sherlock didn't think anything would come up. Already, a profile was emerging in his mind.

An accomplished soldier, if he was a Colonel. With a predilection for getting in trouble, though? He likely didn't conform to the Army's standards and was dishonorably discharged. Already not the most legal of sorts, he would turn to whatever way he could to make money. After being in the Army, which, as John could attest, made one feel _alive, _he would need something just as exciting. A criminal, talented, and a craving for adrenaline? Likely a hired mercenary. Obvious.

Sherlock was out the door without letting John know. He'd probably be angry when he emerged from his hiding spot. For a few moments, Sherlock entertained himself with thoughts as to where John would probably hide. Likely somewhere painful and difficult to get into. Most liked to think Sherlock was dramatic (which he was), but John did have a strange romance with adventure.

There were only a few places Sherlock could think to go. This _Moran _would be waiting for him, doubtlessly. But where? If Moran knew how clever Sherlock was, then he might try to complicate matters. Then _again, _Moran could be unintelligent enough to only think of the obvious location.

And so Sherlock's mind went, in circles and circles. He went to the obvious location, in the end – it wasn't as if he had much time, anyway. Either Lestrade would come back and find John or John would grow guilty and turn himself in. Fool.

The crime scene was deserted when he arrived there. Everything had been freshly washed. If Sherlock possessed any other mind but his own, he would have wondered if this was the same alley. He threw his collar up and strode down the length of the passage. The night was warm.

"Rather rude, I think," Sherlock called out. It reverberated against the brick walls. "To keep someone waiting. You've put on quite a show, and I really would like to meet the actor behind it all." A light smile reached his lips at his next realization. "No, no, _John _was your actor, wasn't he? You were just the director. Always behind the scenes, never really _active, _hm? Not quite the psyche I imagined for a hired thug, but then again, I can hardly say I'm disappointe-"

With that spoken statement, something hard and unforgiving hit Sherlock in the back of his head. The last thing he was aware of was a sickening _crunch _as he fell forward.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't know how long he waited. There was thumping about upstairs, and then the front door had closed. Surely Sherlock would come and retrieve him. Some minutes passed, and not another word. The front door slammed shut again. Oh, no. That hadn't been Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't leave him in a hiding spot, with the Yard wanting him. He wouldn't.

He did.

The spot he had chosen was, perhaps, not very practical. Mrs. Hudson's bed was close to the ground and there wasn't much space to move about in. Not to mention, John wasn't exactly young anymore. He could still keep up with Sherlock well enough, but nobody could say that there _wasn't _a horrible cracking sound as he crept out from under the bed.

That little bastard.

Of course, John felt like he couldn't argue against him. The man broke him out of jail. Granted, John hadn't asked for it, hadn't particularly _wanted _it, but…he was grateful. Sherlock was worrying him.

He knew Sherlock.

Ever since the Fall, they had a strange dynamic. They didn't often talk about the actual occurrence – and John would bring it up in a whispered mumble, if needed. Nor did they talk about the three years that they had spent apart. John wasn't ashamed of his own years away from Sherlock at all. He had grieved over his best friend. And, of course, he was desperately curious about Sherlock's.

Either way, they were _closer. _They could readily tell each other's emotions without speaking a word. Indeed, they didn't often have heart-to-hearts. Neither men wanted to. What they did do was something subtle – not scooting away when the other leaned on them, a hand on the shoulder, a shared look. It was similar to what they had before the Fall…and yet so much more.

It didn't stop him from being totally pissed at Sherlock for leaving him there.

He moved up to the first floor, and took a deep breath.

It was all just really hard to process.

Had he killed a man?

Of course, John had killed men before. He was an Army doctor, and Sherlock's assistant besides. For the most part, he tried not to think about it. After all, John had loads of reasons to stay up at night. He didn't want this to become one of them. Still, though, he couldn't help but feel _guilt _assault him.

God, he had known him. A good doctor. A good man, really. Terribly in love with his girlfriend, passionately so. John had listened to the story of how they met a thousand times – a typical coffee shop romance, a spilled cup of tea, the meeting of the eyes, and then, according to him, they'd been swept off their feet. It made John's heart twitch with envy, just a tad.

He knew he'd never get married. Maybe, someday, if the right girl came along. However, the thought of leaving Sherlock was exponentially more painful than he was willing to admit. Sherlock felt the same way. Of that, John was certain. They worked well together, and they loved one another, and they were best mates. It'd take one hell of a woman to pull John away from that.

Either way, John had potentially killed a man in cold blood. That was more important to think about. He paced the flat for a few moments, trying to formulate a plan. If he had a straight mind, he knew he should have just let himself be taken in. There wasn't much else he'd be able to do, anyway. Unless Sherlock wanted to hiss at him again. Sherlock was worrying him.

If he was just going to wait like this, then Lestrade would just come back with more men. John had to get out. To go where, he didn't know, but he needed _out. _

It was warm out, yet. He could spend a bit of time out here before he needed to think of a plan.

As it would have it, his mobile rang.

_John. To the pool. SH_

John didn't like that idea one bit.

The pool had been a place of strange uneasiness to him. After all, it was the first place where he realized that he was stuck with Sherlock. For better or for worse, he had to make sure his arse was intact by the end of the day. Still, though, the pool was unpleasant.

He arrived half an hour later with his gun attached to his side and a brave face on. He wondered what Sherlock meant, really – the _pool _seemed like an odd place to be, though he had learned a long time ago not to question Sherlock's methods. His only hope was that Sherlock didn't have some stupid plan to get them both killed.

"You're not Sherlock." It was one of the stupidest things to say, really, but it was the only thing that came out of his mouth. John turned around and saw a man.

Sebastian Moran. John had just seen him the past afternoon, when they were having lunch. Life, it seemed, hadn't treated him well. Obviously a drinker and a smoker, but with a few scratches that looked like they came from a knife. Dressed in shabby clothing, but he was holding a gun that looked new enough. He stood with a slight stoop, his head bowed lightly.

His eyes were so firmly focused onto the gun clutched in the man's hand that he didn't even notice the figure between them.

_Sherlock. _

Sherlock was curled up in a small ball. His coat obscured most of his frame, but John could still see his head and that snatch of curly hair. Something dark and wet oozed from his head, and John's breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to look away from the body (_no _not body Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock) and back at Moran.

Moran peered his head up from him and looked at him under a heavy brow. The effect was chilling. "You're right there, mate. Not Sherlock in the slightest. Hell, let's be honest, is _Sher_-lock even Sherlock anymore? He's softened up a bit since I last saw him up on that rooftop. Then again, he was crying there, too." There was a light Scottish tip with every word that he spoke. John tried to deduce him. Investigate him. _Something. _

"He wasn't crying. He doesn't." John mumbled back to him, feeling more and more like a fool. The witty one-liners were Sherlock's duty. Shooting was John's. With that thought, he flicked the safety off his own revolver.

"Nah. I saw him with my own eyes. Even though they were mainly focused on you, doctor. Had to be. Old Boss said that if Sherlock didn't take the shortest route possible, then I was to shoot you dead. Though I imagine you all knew that by now. But he was cryin', mate." Moran sneered at him, his own hands tightening on his gun.

They weren't focused on John. Rather, at Sherlock.

John needed to stop that immediately. It was his first priority.

"Yeah. Fine. Why wait for me, then? If Sherlock's who you're after, then why the hell am I here?" John spluttered out, blinking harshly. "What the hell was all of this _for?" _

Moran gave him a smile that reminded John sickeningly of a rather large cat. "Oh? I can't pretend to know _everythin', _you know, Boss was the brains of this entire trick. He said to me that last night, he was saying, that in case _something didn't go to plan, _I was to follow his instructions. A follow-up, he said. And lookie here, Sherly-Curly's not dead. So I followed the plan." His smile grew. "My Boss is _mad, _mate, you understand? Even I don't know what he's up to. But God, it was damned fun."

"_Was _mad." John mumbled quietly under his breath, though he didn't make it loud enough for Moran to hear. Didn't need him to get a reason to do anything rash. "Plan, you said? That's all this was? A plan?"

"Right. You get to know, well enough. _Technically, _I should have just shot you and not explained. But you're a good enough man, I suppose, and I'm not a monster. Well, not usually." The grin vanished from the man's face. "It was simple enough. Get you to agree to lunch, slip a bit of slow-acting sedative into your drink. When it finally affected you, I'd get the victim ready. _You _did kill the man, John, in the end. You were barely lucid, bless your little heart. And you saw _me, _the man you saw in _Afghanistan. _Your little stress disorder was always worse in your sleep, wasn't it? Just a few suggestions." The smile returned. "Please, Captain Watson, shoot the enemy. Colonel Moran needs assistance, but first, you've got to eliminate the enemy. Captain Watson!"

John felt sick to his core. Indeed, he didn't say anything for a few moments.

"You shot him well enough and then tried to patch me up. O'course, I wasn't hurt none. But you were starting to get a little bit more aware, so I decided to get out of there right quick. You didn't notice a thing. It was all very nice, really. I was to get you in jail, and make Sherlock believe that you killed a man." Moran drawled, taking a step forward.

"Why the hell would you do that? That didn't do anything for you. All it would've done was-"

"Shatter Sherlock to little bits and pieces, yeah. Y'see, Boss wanted Sherlock to die according to his rules. The little game they were playing, yeah? And if Sherlock was alive after that, then Boss figured Sherlock must've cheated. So Boss wanted Sherlock to suffer, and, well. People get so attached to their pets. You get in jail, Sherlock's a ruined man, I shoot him or let him shoot himself."

John twitched at the last few words. His gun withdrew out of his holster and he pointed it at Moran. "Sherlock wouldn't have done anything like that. He's not some kid who gets upset when his Mummy's gone. He would be able to handle himself right fine, and if it weren't for me cocking about, he'd be able to get around you, too."

There was a laugh. It was cut off by a harsh cough, and John hated how the sound reverberated through the pool. "You really believe that, don't you? God, bless you. Sherlock would've been crushed if he thought that his little friend was really a big scary psychopath all along. Y'see, you made Sherlock feel _wanted. _Everyone else just _needs _Sherlock Holmes. Who the hell else actually wants his stupid arse about? With you gone, he would've been all bloody alone. Isn't that sad, Johnny boy?"

"Shut up." John responded to him, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. That was too painful to think about. Of course he knew what he meant to Sherlock, but he didn't want to think that he was life or death for the man. He was in the Army. Death wasn't a scary topic to him. "Just…Moran, for God's sake, _let us go. _You don't think we've been through enough?"

"My _boss _is _dead!" _Moran shouted it at him with such a cruel and despicable villainy that John took a step back. The last word was cut off with a laugh, and for a good few seconds, Moran just laughed again. "You've not think _I've _had a bad time? Sure, I didn't like the little bugger. Nobody did. But God, can you just imagine how it feels, John? Yours just stopped off a building. Mine had to go and blow his bloody head off. You got to feel his pulse, I just had to look at his brains splattered against the pavement. Don't you dare talk to me about what you've been through, Watson."

It was at that moment that John felt just a touch of sympathy for him. Not enough to not shoot him, of course, but certainly enough to feel like it was a horrible situation. To hell with geniuses. To hell with the men who implanted themselves in lives and couldn't extricate themselves. To hell with being the sidekick.

"You could still let us go. Nobody's got to be killed, Moran, and you know that if you kill Sherlock, I'll kill you."

"I could kill you first. You're a good doctor, John, you've saved my life on the battlefield. But I'm not a nice man."

"Maybe not. Neither's Sherlock, though, and look at all he's done for everyone." John murmured back, thrilled beyond belief that he was having a proper conversation with someone who was pointing a gun at his best friend. "Look, Moran, just head off. I'll clean it all up, properly, and then-"

"_Don't you think that it's a little too late for tha-" _Moran shouted back at him, with the strange madness that John had seen in Moriarty's eyes once upon a time, and Moran pointed his gun at John. In the same moment, John pulled the trigger.

He toppled into the pool.

"Sherlock." John fell to his knees, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Already he was shrugging off his windbreaker and placing it against Sherlock's head. The wound was bleeding sluggishly, by that point, though John needed to get some stitches in it. "Sherlock, mate, you there?"

"Thanks." Sherlock gasped out, one pale hand going to grasp John's wrist. "What you said. Back there. Defending me. Not calling me…weak, or…yes. That was very good."

"Yeah. Right. Good. We're heading back to the flat."

oOo

"John, be _gentle." _

"Sherlock, for God's sake, I'm trying, but if you won't stop wriggling-"

"I'd stop _wriggling _if you actually went quicker, John!"

John huffed out a groan and settled next to Sherlock again. He was slowly stitching up Sherlock's skull, chewing the inside of his cheek as he did so. It was a nasty wound, to be sure, but John didn't want to alarm Sherlock any. "So back there, eh? You heard everything?"

"I did." Sherlock repeated, dropping quickly back into seriousness. "About what you thought would happen if you turned out to be the murderer, about Moran's plan, about you actually killing the man. Everything."

For a few moments more, John remained silent. He paused and flexed his fingers before continuing on. "And?"

"I cannot put you at fault, really. I doubt we'll tell the Yard the entire story, of course, but I'll have Mycroft fix it up." Sherlock smiled. "I could have Mycroft fix it from the beginning, you know. But I suppose you've instilled a damned morality into me, John. I wouldn't want to let a guilty man go free, just as I don't want to let an innocent man go to jail. It's a tricky business, but it will be solved."

While John was certainly pleased by that bit of information (because, frankly, his heart was already heavy with the thought that he'd killed two people in one day), that wasn't what he meant. He told Sherlock that.

"Ah. I imagine you mean what you said about how I would react if you were the murderer. I would be distressed. To what degree, I cannot say." Sherlock mused, tilting his head so John could get a better angle. "But I can say this for certain: I would much rather lose a limb than be without my blogger for even a day." When John finished, Sherlock (in the most casual way possible) leaned back against John's shoulder and rested. John raised a hand to card through Sherlock's curls. "Based on that, my dear friend, how do you think I'd react if I had to go without you permanently?"

"You're a tosser." John mumbled under his breath, although he felt that, if he were a softer man, he would have started to cry. "A proper tosser. Don't go talking like that." For a second, and it was almost invisible, but he could see a flash of displeasure cross over Sherlock's face. Sherlock wanted John to say something sentimental, too. "Likewise, mate. I've been without you before." John took a deep breath and shut his eyes – Christ, he could write love poems to his girlfriends, but when it came to Sherlock? "Without you? It's like the world's just in black and white. With you around, it's like the world's in brilliant colour."

Sherlock smiled up at him and relaxed against his shoulder. "Goodnight, my dear Watson."

John looked down at him and gently hit his shoulder. "Thanks, Holmes."


End file.
